


Rotation

by limitedpractice



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, but no-one's drunk, drinking overpriced cocktails, having a drink with a mild mannered friend, sfw, that you end up seeing in a new light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:49:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24887119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limitedpractice/pseuds/limitedpractice
Summary: On the Lost Light, as one of a handful of humans serving under a new captain, you have a drink with someone unexpected.
Relationships: Hoist/Reader, Hoist/You
Kudos: 39





	Rotation

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wrote pretty much in one go because Hoist has taken up a place on my list of rotating favourite characters, and I got the urge to write something about him.
> 
> He's such a Good Green Guy and deserves all the love and attention he feels comfortable receiving.
> 
> This is set on the Lost Light after the Mutiny.

“Is this seat taken?”

You look as surprised as Hoist does that he’s said something to you.

“Uh, no,” you say, making a vague gesture at the clearly empty seat next to you. “I don’t think so. No-one’s been sitting here and no-one’s asked me to save it for them, so no. It’s free.”

“Right. Can I sit down on it?”

“Sure. If you want. Which is what you do want, because you’ve literally just said that so yes. Sit down. Not that you need my permission to do so. Even though you just asked for it.”

“Yes.”

Hoist sits down gingerly next to you and sits ramrod straight. You both stare straight ahead into the crowded bar.

Well that was pretty painful.

You’re not uncomfortable being near him, but the fact that he said anything to you in the first place has set you on edge. And that’s not because you dislike him, but because you don’t know him. It’s like a mythical being has materialised in front of you with the sole motivation to prove to you that they exist. It’s not something you have much experience with.

You take a sip of your drink and glance over at him. He’s fiddling with his own drink. He’s rotating the glass in his hands and looking at the swirling liquid inside with a slight frown on his face. He looks deep in thought. Maybe he’s also wondering how he got here.

You take a deeper swallow of your drink. “Having a good night?” you ask him.

He blinks and looks up at you. “Yes. Yes it’s fine thank you.”

Hoist is one of those people you see around the ship regularly. He’s always there in the background and on the sidelines. He’s an undistinguishable face that sometimes advances to a smooth smudge of green in the corner of your eye, before his pigments collapse under the weight of the attention and dissolve into the colourful crowd again. When you enter a room full of people and scan it, your eyes never snag on him. They pass over him smoothly, like he’s coated in a pleasant repellent. He’s not designed to stand out and doesn’t seem to want to.

“Good.” You nod your head. “Yeah it’s a good night. One night out a week to socialise, huh? Can’t waste it, can we?”

“Nope.”

Hoist’s a nice guy. He won’t ever turn you away if you need non-emergency medical attention or a minor mechanical problem solved, but he’s not someone you seek out to have a sparkling conversation with.

You both drink from your glasses at the same time.

You exchange a look at the same time.

Hoist looks away first. There’s a palpable tension in his frame, and the way he’s sitting looks deeply uncomfortable.

You decide to sit back fully. You force yourself to relax back into your seat and unclench muscles you didn’t realise you’d been tightening. You’re only allowed one night out a week to drink and mingle and blow off steam, and you’re not going to waste it worrying about what Hoist is worrying about. He’s not one to offer up his feelings, and you don’t want to be pushy and rude. And neither do you want your night of socialising to turn into a night of counselling. Hoist’s a good guy and he can take care of himself. And you’re a good person and you deserve to relax.

You stretch a leg out, bring that ankle up to rest on your other leg’s knee, and take another swallow of your drink. And all things considered, it’s a pretty good cocktail. It's not too strong and not flooded with ice. Its deep green colour is nice to look at, especially if you rotate it clockwise and then anti-clockwise and it catches the artificial lights of the bar and shines like a star voyaging across the waves.

“Would you like another one?” Hoist blurts out.

You jerk and clutch your glass harder. Green liquid sloshes up the side and touches the rim and threatens to spill over but it doesn’t, it doesn’t break over into something noticeable and simply slides back down and joins the rest of the drink to once again become indistinguishable.

Hoist has already finished his much larger drink. He must have downed it almost in one go while you were examining the contents of your own glass.

“Uh, sure,” you say, because why not.

He practically jumps up.

He returns with your drink and you take it from him.

"Thanks. "

You take an automatic sip from it.

Hoist sits back down in the seat that is now his. That raw discomfort you detected earlier from him has been blunted.

He half turns towards you.

"Mirage created that drink especially for you, didn't he?"

You nod. "Yep. No oil or energon or shards of metal in this thing. Just 37% alcohol, artificial colours and flavorings, and more sugar than I usually have in a week."

"So just the safe and healthy stuff for you then?" he asks without missing a beat.

"Just the safe, healthy, and delicious stuff for me," you retort.

He smiles quickly and looks away, knowing that he's reached the apex of his talents in this sparring match and isn't resentful that he's lost so soon.

Hoist takes another drink. He looks back at you. There’s a mild crease of concern on his face. "What if he gets the mixture wrong? What if he accidentally makes you a drink that's dangerous and makes you sick? Our knowledge of humans is still embarrassingly limited."

You take a slow sip of what could possibly give you alcohol poisoning. This is the greatest number of words Hoist has ever said to you. And they're full of concern and possibility.

You finally shrug. "Then I'll get my stomach pumped and hope for the best."

You wait for him to give one of the standard responses you always receive when you say something like this.

Hoist pauses for a second and processes what you've said. He nods in mild approval. "Makes sense."

That's not one of the standard responses.

"Uh," you say.

What usually happens - what always happens - is that a bot is either horrified, scared, scornful, angry, confused, or amused at your fatalistic attitude towards living and working on an alien starship that's hurtling through an uncharted part of the galaxy. They don't acknowledge that you've weighed up the risks a hundred thousand times already, and don't accept that you've accepted them.

But he does.

"...yeah," you finish lamely.

Hoist looks like he knows he could stream across the finishing line and claim a magnificent underdog victory against you, but the fact that he knows he's out ahead is enough. He stays silent and doesn't press you further.

You wonder if his level of contentment and self-confidence could ever possibly be earned instead of faked. You wonder why some people are born with this rare quality, and wonder how many of those actually deserve it. You wonder about how wonderful it would be to be him.

You both make eye contact, and you look away first.

You finish the rest of your drink.

"Do you want another one?" you ask him this far quicker than you'd have liked.

He finishes his nearly full drink in one go.

"Sure. Thanks."

You look at his empty glass. "Impressive," you say.

"Not really," he says. "That drink was only one colour."

You laugh loudly and immediately, and it's an effort to close your mouth back up and stop more of your ridiculous sounds from escaping.

He looks delighted in that self contained way of his.

"Same again?" you ask him.

"....no. This time I'll have that." He points at the menu that's scrolling across a large digital display.

You squint at the small translation next to it in your language. "’The Fountain’?"

"Yep."

"But Hoist," you say as you sit back slowly, the alcohol warming your stomach pleasantly, "That drink has two colours in it. Are you sure you're ready for the big leagues?"

A wide and easy smile forms on his face, and that heat in your stomach starts to spread.

"Sometimes I like to live dangerously," he says.

"If there's the threat of three colours in your drink, do you struggle not to pass out?"

He laughs out loud at that. It's a rich and unselfconscious laugh, and you wish it could be bottled and consumed.

He looks at you with bright electric eyes, leans in closer, and lowers his voice.

"I said I like to live dangerously, not die recklessly."

It takes you a moment to remember how to talk. "So that's a no to three colours then?"

"Correct."

"Good to know. I'll get you a two coloured drink only."

“Thank you.”

He holds eye contact with you, and doesn’t look away.

You can’t look away.

You’re sitting next to the most mild mannered and unremarkable person you’ve ever met, and for the first time since you boarded this ship, you feel like you could be in trouble.

It’s not an unwelcome feeling.


End file.
